


the teeth right down to the blood

by sazzafraz



Series: give me envy, give me malice, [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Canon Typical Violence, Dubious Consent, F/M, M/M, Psychic Bond
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-13
Updated: 2012-09-13
Packaged: 2017-11-14 03:57:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/511059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sazzafraz/pseuds/sazzafraz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>‘We’re pretty fucked right now.’ Scott says. Stiles doesn’t speak but there’s something singing in his bones that says Scott got the message anyway. (In which both are bit and things are gruesome.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	the teeth right down to the blood

**Author's Note:**

> Basically, I finished writing the Peter - Stiles interaction for Short and Sweet, was somewhat upset I don't really have any for River Run Dry but, hey, there was plenty of Scott and Peter in that one, and saw a post on Tumblr about how someone wanted an AU where they were both bitten. Three hours and a bottle of whiskey and here we fucking are. 
> 
> This is not what I wanted for my life.
> 
> Fucking teenage lycanthropy.

\--

The smell of gasoline hits Stiles low in the gut, he can tell by the way Scott folds in half in the passenger seat of his car that it’s just as bad for him.

‘What the hell is that smell?’ Scott asks, mouth working to avoid throwing up.

Stiles leans his head against the steering wheel. ‘Gasoline.’

‘From the tank?’

‘Yeah.’

They got bit by something and the wound is already healed. He can feel something taste every part of him, shake around until there’s something else hard and heavy in his eyes. Things sharpen, intensify. He can taste rust under his tongue, always rust, no matter how many times he swallows. His tongue rolls heavy inside of his mouth, his teeth rattle. There’s bad in the blood. There’s more teeth in his mouth.

‘We’re pretty fucked right now.’ Scott says. Stiles doesn’t speak but there’s something singing in his bones that says Scott got the message anyway.

\--

Lycanthropy, the books say.

‘Well.’ Scott holds up a picture of a stylized wolf, ‘not what I wanted for Christmas.’

They spend the night looking through everything. Wolf attacks are uncommon in California and especially uncommon in Beacon Hills. Except for once every couple years when wolf sightings triple. Researchers put it down to migration. Stiles puts it down to the Hales, the strange cult like family that’s lived in the woods for as long as there have been woods to live in. The Hales are mostly an extinct breed, with exception to Laura, Derek and Peter all of whom are somewhat indisposed being missing, presumed missing, and in a coma. Scott’s the one who fins it in the obituaries. Two swirls Google reveals to be triskeles curled together with a small paragraph on Laura and Derek’s tragic passing underneath.

Laura and Derek Hale rolled in to town just to die, it seems, which effectively nullifies Stiles theory of grief induced mass werewolf turning.

They look through the Hales for the rest of the night via image search out of morbidity or an intense need to understand what came before. The second Peter flashes on the screen he almost whines with a keen desperate hunger. Scott doesn’t clamp down and lets out a small mournful, needy sound. Stiles has his hand curled around Scott before he finishes making the noise, tucks himself in closer. He’s never _wanted_ something so much, ripped down to spare parts and dunked in acid, he might claw out of his skin if they can’t find him. Scott is worse; always feeling things more immediately, always more open than Stiles. It _guts_ him.

‘We’re going to stay away from him.’ Stiles says.

Scott nods. ‘We have to.’

You can’t want something so much just the idea of not having it makes you sick. They’re both old enough to know that.

\--

Scott and Stiles are Scott-and-Stiles because of accidents that landed them both in the hospital at the same time.

Accurate enough, except for Scott laid around ready to die as his parents screamed in the hallway and Stiles running from room to room to room while his mother eased into death. Stiles walked into Scott’s room by accident, stayed for the cartoons, and the rest is history. Sometime before their fourteenth birthdays things begin to shift. What was already a pretty indistinct line turns transparent, Scott and Stiles move from being each others only friend to actively keeping others out. Wanting grows between them, finds roots in two am calls and grows leafs out of anniversaries. Wanting finds them young and chokes them together.

The way things lay out, this was always going to happen.

\--

Scott kicks the shit out of lacrosse.  

Stiles is still benched, always will be, probably. High School being itself quickly enfolds them in the new status quo; Danny and Jackson and Lydia and chorus pressing in on them at lunch. There’s a new girl, Allison, and Stiles feels the kick-jump in Scotts heartbeat when she says something about pencils.

‘You going to say something, Stilinski?’ Jackson sneers and, huh, that use to scare him.

He imagines it vividly. How hot Jackson would be under his hands, how heady it would be to open him up along the seams of his designer clothes, how hard it would be to not press kisses to the inseams.

It feels like being a fly in amber in a thunderstruck tree in an earthquake in a psychosomatic waking nightmare. He wants Jackson ripped to pieces in his mouth. He wants to pull off all of Danny until he’s white bones and white teeth. He wants Lydia, well, he usually wants Lydia, but he wants Lydia wanting just as hard and wrapped around his hands, fingers knotting inside where she’s softest. He wants-

Scott trails fingers over the thinness of his wrist bone and he wants nothing he can’t have on slick forest floors, nothing that hadn’t started when they were both too young to know better than running in the woods.

‘We’re okay,’ Scott whispers, ‘things will be good.’

Stiles believes him because half a life has taught him that very few things are more powerful than Scott’s goodness.  

\--

They know that these thoughts are not their own. All the more reason to stay away from Peter.

\--

Allison becomes an attachment and it takes adjustment. Stiles is used to Scott being in his periphery. Used to slow steps behind him and not at all used to the way Allison sounds in the forest, high and breathless. He doesn’t mind so much as he doesn’t know if it’s _his_ mind telling him about the taste of her between her legs or the long line of her back. Stiles is Scott is Stiles and Allison has unknowingly become a part of that.

\--

The full moon brings out the worst in them and the terrible truth of Peter. They’ve been hiding from each other up until now but Scott and Stiles have felt Peter tugging them toward him. First it was mundane light touches, like pats on the head when they did well or when they were happy, fleeting little presses of approval on the back of their minds. Heavier touches when they tested their powers in the forest, when they almost ran into parts of the woods that are still dangerous, even for them. Hard tugs at night, sweating out and pulsing. Tripling over the need and pressing them apart until he can push inside them. Those are the hardest nights, when he pushes inside one of them and takes the wanting that they both know they have and opens it up in his palms until one of them is fucking into the other or folding fingers inside or biting everywhere.  

‘It’s just us.’ Scott says, mouth still pressed down on a patch of belly, ‘it’s what, we would have- We’re going to be okay, I want this and you and everything will be okay.’

‘I know,’ Stiles says, and it’s true, they would have and it’s also true that things will get better.

On the full moon it’s like he’s there, piling them on top of each other until the bond is a round robin of give and take and everything feels like it’s been set on fire.  

Stiles absently traces a pattern onto Scott’s back later and realises that it’s Peter’s phone number. The tug in his head toward Peter intensifies.

\--

Scott is proven wrong a bare three days later.

Kate Argent finds them at an unmarked grave that smells like home and love and acceptance. Their hands shake as they reveal the top of Laura Hale’s body and shake harder when they cover her back up. Kate announces her presence with the clicking of her guns and her hells. They never really stood a chance.

She opens fire and when the first bullet folds into Scott it feels like someone has hooked into his brain and pulled it out through his mouth. He tastes blood and fur inside his mouth and he, god, he makes this _noise_ like someone’s killing him and Scott is in it too, they’re howling as Kate fires and fires and fires. One of them, Scott, from the way he wipes his mouth and washes out his mouth later, manages to bite the gun out of her hand. Kate screams and laughs at the same time. Like this is _thrilling_ her. Kate pulls a knife next and Stiles stops tracking anything that isn’t the sound of Scott next to him. It ends, eventually, Kate has too many injuries and they’re wild with pain and fury and dumb base instincts making them open and close jaws too heavy for their faces.  

Stiles is the one to call Peter and Scott is the one to shoot him in the arm with one of the Argents left over bullets.

‘Tell us how to fix it.’ Stiles says, pain flaring through him, duller than Scotts but no less unpleasant.

‘You crafty little things,’ Peter’s eyes are red, red, red, no anger or hurt just a cutting fondness as his arm flares up black and sickening, ‘an excellent pair.’

‘Shut up.’ Scott has his hands over a particularly large bullet wound on his side, grazing where the bite went. Stiles wants to rip it out with his teeth.

‘Is it you or me?’ Stiles ask Peter as he takes the gun away from Scott.

Peter shrugs, ‘who can tell?’

Stiles raises the gun to shoot again, maybe in the neck. Scott doesn’t move but he can feel it like a string around his wrist, _don’t let him make you._ Stiles lowers the gun. ‘You wanna live?’

‘It would be preferable.’ Peter rolls into a deliberately submissive position, and fuck if that doesn’t mess with his head, Peter is their _Alpha_ he’s meant to lead them, protect them, own them-

‘Ah, there it is.’ Peter clucks his tongue, ‘hello, soldier mine. Pass me a bullet and a lighter.’  

Stiles freezes and Scott switches in for him, sliding a bullet out and fishing for the lighter Stiles carries in his jacket just in case. Scott throws both of them at Peter, coming back to rest at Stiles shoulder. His hand traces one small pattern on the razor edge of an elbow and down to Stiles’ wrist.

Peter opens the bullet and lights it, lighting the powder and packing the wound. Scott and Stiles move at the same time, each trying to heal the other first. Scott is stronger, twisting Stiles wrist until he opens up and lets Scott press him down enough to put the powder to an injury.

‘Lighter,’ Scott snaps. Peter looks indulgent as he throws the lighter. The slow paleness creeps out of Stiles. Peter comes to stand over them, pressing up along Scott to tend to his wounds.

‘You should listen to me.’ Peter says conversationally.

Stiles raises an eyebrow, acutely aware of how he’s sprawled in the dirt. ‘Say something interesting.’

‘I love you.’ Peter says flatly.

‘Say something _convincing_.’ Scott mutters, fingers fluttering across Stiles skin.

‘By morning you’ll have a pack,’ Peter tries, fangs dipping down on _pack._ Both of them shiver, Scott turning toward Peter slightly, advertising that they’re listening. Peter walks to Laura’s grave and fuses with the dirt. He pulls back and opens a palm to reveal silver dust. The woods wake, push up along some extended sense. The woods wake.

‘I couldn’t just leave them dead.’ Peter says, standing up to put on a show. Arms and silver dirt thrown wide. ‘They’re family.’

‘Because zombies are a lot better,’ Scott says.

‘Well they won’t be for long.’ Peter promises. Stiles stands on shaky legs, holding onto Scott to avoid falling face first. Peter opens his arms, widens his stance, finally acting how he’s supposed to. It’s enough to shake the confusion out. ‘Come along.’ Peter says, commanding. There’s a full body twitch to do what he wants that lulls at the bottom of their spines.

‘Yeah, no.’ Stiles says.

‘Not happening,’ Scott says a moment after.

‘Excuse me?’

Scott rolls a shoulder and cracks his neck. ‘We don’t have to listen to you.’

‘I’m your Alpha.’

Scott snorts. ‘Yeah, what has that done for us lately?’

‘I can be persuasive.’

‘You tried that.’ Scott.

‘You failed.’ Stiles.

There’s a lesion in their heads, Stiles thinks, him and Scott on land and Peter circling in the water trying to reel them in. Stiles reaches for Scott’s wrist, tangles fingers. The steady hum that’s just _them,_ no Peter, no wolves, grows faster and stronger. The press at their spines, between their legs, ebbs and ebbs until it’s just them. No Peter at all.

‘Do you really want to starts this?’ Peter’s eyes go red.

‘Yeah,’ Scott and Stiles say together, ‘we really, _really_ do.’

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not sure if this needs a rape warning or not. Feel free to let me know.


End file.
